


The Weight of Silence

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: DEAR LORDE I WRITE IN FLIPPING SUPERWHOLOCK REFERENCES, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-31 08:26:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1029504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John & Sherlock are walking home after a case when something unexpected happens.<br/>SUSPENSE.<br/>ANGST.<br/>GASP.<br/>I legitimately suck at writing descriptions. But I want to let you know that I am actually kind of proud of this and I want to know what you think. There may be more chapters, depending on what you guys think of this. Please let me know. Thanks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Weight of Silence

“That was brilliant John!” Sherlock beamed at the man to his right, something he rarely does. “I didn’t even see the man’s coat! You were fantastic,” he can’t seem to stop smiling. “And you know what? So was I.”  
The blond man chuckled and shook his head, blinking, trying to rid the snowflakes from his eyelashes.  
The two men, still smiling and occasionally glancing in the other’s direction, strided down the alley way. They had decided to walk instead of taking a taxi home to avoid the news reporters. It was a chilly night, and they were both fond of the winter weather, so neither man had minded. The faint chatter of the busy city was echoing through the alley, and both of the men listened to the quiet noise as they walked, neither saying another word, content with the drowning sound of the city.  
This is one of the reasons why John had managed to stay at 221B Baker Street, why he had managed to put up with the irritating, arrogant, insufferable know-it-all of a man walking beside him. He was different. If he was walking down this alley with anyone else, he would feel the weight of the silence beating down on him with every step. The awkward silence would ring in his ears until one of them would make a small comment about the weather.  
But with Sherlock, they could spend hours sitting in a room together, with no awkwardness at all. Sherlock seemed to be immune to trivial things like awkwardness. He could not feel the weight of silence. Nor the ringing that comes with the sudden lack of words.  
But he was also so undeniably human. John couldn’t pretend that he could never see way Sherlock’s eyes lit up in the thrill of the chase. The way he cared for Mrs. Hudson as if she his mother.  
Yet, John never saw his eyes when Sherlock looked at him. He always looked away a moment too soon. This is when Sherlock would catch his glimpse. This is when Sherlock looked the most human. When he was looking at the man who wanted so desperately for everyone to believe he was.  
Suddenly, a low moan disrupted John’s thoughts. He paused, looking questioningly at Sherlock. “Did you hear that?”  
The black haired man nodded and said, “It sounded as if it came from underneath that garbage bag to your left.’’  
Slowly, John walked over the the pile and lifted up one of the bags. “Dear God,” he whispered, getting onto his knees and piling the rest of the bags behind him, before trying to carefully drag the body from the wall.  
“Does she have a pulse?” Sherlock asked gently.  
Another soft groan whispered through the alley.  
“Yeah.”  
Sherlock took a step forward to look. “Female. Mid-Teens. Only child. Abusive father. Mother died at an early age.”  
John swallowed and whispered, “What happened to her?”  
Sherlock crouched down and looked at the girl, first her shoes, then her clothes, then the bruises and cuts on her face. “She was walking down the street when a man, jumped out from this alley and pulled her in.”  
John closed his eyes, his jaw set.  
Sherlock went on. “She struggled, but he was strong. He pushed her down and beat her. She kept trying to fight back. He pulled out a knife. After she was too bloodied and bruised to fight anymore, he-” Sherlock stopped mid-sentence and looked away. “He raped her. He took her into the alley, beat her until she was too weak to move, and then raped her.’’ His eyes were fixed on a point that John couldn’t see.  
Suddenly, Sherlock stood up and gently picked up the girl.  
“What are you doing?” John asked, baffled.  
“I’m taking her to the flat. It’s right around the corner. We are going to clean her up as much as possible, you are going to bandage up her cuts, I am going to sleep on the couch, and she is going to sleep in my room.”  
John looked at the man, perplexed, before nodding. “That is exactly what we are going to do.”

***

When John saw the girl in the light of the flat, he grew even more determined to take care of her. Her face was covered in dirt from the alley, with white lines down her face, coming from her eyes, lines where the grime was washed away by tears. Blood was running from her hairline, from a hit to the head.  
John washed away the dirt and blood, and stitched up the cut beneath her hair.  
She was still out cold.  
John was making sure he caught everything when he saw blood dripping from the girl’s arm. He gently lifted it up to see something cut into it.  
“SLUT.”  
It was engraved into her arm. Cut. Sliced. Carved. She would have that scar for the rest of her life. It would be a constant reminder of this night.  
John clenched his jaw as he cleaned the wound.  
When he had finished, he carried her into Sherlock’s room and set her on the bed; tucking her into the covers gently, careful not to cause her any pain.  
John walked back into the living room to find Sherlock sitting in his chair almost mechanically; looking into space. It wasn’t the normal, calculating look John was used to. It was haunted, remembering. Suddenly he spoke.  
“I have to go out. Don’t wait up for me.”  
John looked up at him in surprise. “Uhm. Okay. Could you get some milk?”  
“Yes.” Sherlock said, without looking back. It was quiet, not the usual, arrogant tone. Something was wrong, but John was worn out, he went to his bedroom and fell asleep before he could think anything of it.

***

Sherlock staggered into 221B, drunken. It was 5 am. He had found a liquor store.  
And he drank it.  
He couldn’t bear it anymore. Finding the girl in the alley, raped, it had brought back memories. Memories that he had tried so hard not to remember. Memories that he lost hours of sleep over. Memories that caused him to turn to smoking. To drugs.  
But he never spoke of it. Mycroft had left for University before their mother had gotten to drinking. He never knew, because Sherlock never told him.  
Then John came, and it was like those long nights in his mother’s bedroom never happened. John had helped him forget, unknowingly. John had saved him in every way that he had saved John.  
Before stumbling onto the couch, Sherlock peeked into John’s room. He was asleep. Sherlock crept in, trying not to make a sound, and leaned over the sleeping man.  
He gently pressed his lips against John’s face, right above his eyes.  
After a couple seconds, Sherlock stood up, and, wiping a tear from his cheek, walked out of the room.


End file.
